


Crowley Makes Creative Threats (And Is Prepared To Follow Through With Them)

by psychoticfire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale miracles a homophobe into the wall kind of minor, But only a bit, But only briefly and only a bit, Canon Compliant, Homophobic Language, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, If You Squint - Freeform, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, My First Work in This Fandom, N & T mentions that Aziraphale gets buyers for his bookshop often and they threaten him, Other, Pining, just very very minor, like half of the word, so i wrote that but with crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 15:56:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoticfire/pseuds/psychoticfire
Summary: Aziraphale's bookshop: Is filled with first editions, has erratic opening hours, once housed the Metatron for a few minutesAziraphale's bookshop: Is loved by both a demon and an angelAziraphale's bookshop: Has burned up once (Crowley doesn't recommend trying it again)Aziraphale's bookshop: Is... located in a very much coveted location in the middle of Central LondonAziraphale receives, sometimes, unexpected and unwelcome guests in the form of potential buyers. These buyers often try to coerce and threaten him into selling his bookshop. Crowley won't stand for it, but Aziraphale, apparently, handles things very well.





	Crowley Makes Creative Threats (And Is Prepared To Follow Through With Them)

“Surely, we can persuade you to… reconsider,” says the man in a black suit looming in front of Aziraphale, a briefcase held in his hands, and his gaze a business-like cordiality thinly veiled over menacing threat. “After all, you must see the pros of selling your old… _bookshop_ to us.”

He says the word _bookshop_ like it leaves a bitter taste in his tongue, as if of all the words he would use to describe Aziraphale’s cherished shop, ‘bookshop’ would be at the bottom of the list—or, at least, rank beneath something more insulting.

Aziraphale, frankly, doesn’t even know how he got in this situation.

He was closing up, about to flip the _open_ sign hanging in the front door’s window to a very firm _closed_ and was in the middle of drawing the curtains down when three men walked in—businessmen, obviously, but clearly sent by their boss with the idea of intimidation in mind. And yes, Aziraphale _could_ get rid of them, very fast at that, but it would cause suspicion to the humans. And surely the news would spread, and that would complicate the situation needlessly.

He decides to face this situation in his usual manner—it isn’t the first time someone’s tried to persuade him into selling his bookshop for the much-coveted location, and he’s sure it won’t be the last—and to try his best to politely but _firmly and explicitly_ refuse their offer. So Aziraphale smiles at the man and his companions, and shakes his head.

“I’m truly sorry,” says the angel. “My bookshop is _not_ up for sale, and this is non-negotiable.”

“Anything’s negotiable,” says the man, “with the right amount of money. Name your price, Mr. Ziraphale.”

The man lays down the briefcase on a table that’s already quite full, and opens it with the air of someone preparing to lay down their winning ace. As Aziraphale suspected, it’s filled with bills—crisp hundred pounds laying in tidy bundles—and yes, the angel won’t be the last to admit that it’s tempting, but everyone has lines they don’t cross, and _this _is undoubtedly one of them.

“I’m not interested,” Aziraphale insists. “Now, if you don’t mind, I do really need to close shop—”

“You do know what a nice place you have here, right?” another man speaks up. He’s less muscular than the one originally holding the briefcase, but still holding a threatening aura nonetheless, and he’s leaning irreverently against one of the bookshelves—the one holding the first edition Oscar Wildes, and Aziraphale exhales with frustration. “Very good commercial value. Nice exposure.”

“And very, very flammable paper,” the third man adds. Aziraphale sighs. He’s heard all this before. Humans never change, not even in the creativity of their threats.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale says dismissively, a tad rudely, and definitely impatiently. “Gentlemen, please, I do insist that you leave right this instant. I am _not_ interested in your offer, and I will not be interested any time in the foreseeable future.”

“Are you sure about that?” the first man asks, persistently, stubbornly, with a certain implication. “We can’t… convince you otherwise?”

“Certainly not,” says someone, and it’s not Aziraphale, not at all, but the angel recognizes the voice as well as if it would’ve been his own. He turns to see Crowley standing beside him, one hand braced against the table as he lolls his head towards his friend, then towards the potential buyers. “What’s all this?”

The men blink in surprise and shock—because where Crowley was standing now, there was definitely nobody there before. Aziraphale, on the other hand, only smiles at the demon. “Well, you see, I was just closing up the shop, when these gentlemen came in and offered to buy the shop. And I am certainly not interested in their offers, only they don’t seem to be able to hear my declination.”

“Oh?” Crowley lowers his sunglasses, peering over the edge of the darkened lenses to get a good look at the men. “Really?”

“And who are you?” the second man asks, clearly disturbed by the yellow slit pupils holding a steady gaze on him. “His manager? Co-worker? Employee?”

“I’m his best friend,” declares Crowley, and Aziraphale beams, “and the demon hanging over his shoulder. _Gentlemen_, I really do suggest leaving this place as soon as possible, or I cannot _possibly_ be held accountable to what might happen next.”

The demon sweeps one hand down, and, in a dramatic flourish of his fingers, snaps the briefcase closed with a minor demonic miracle, sending it flying back to the man who carried it in the first place. Crowley keeps his hand in position, angling his fingers into a point. “Yeah?”

The first man looks to Crowley, then to Aziraphale, and his face contorts—ugly emotions, undoubtedly caused by the bitterness of the failure of his business endeavor and the mocking smirk Crowley’s giving him, showing through the originally perfunctory mask. “So you’re not just a bastard,” he snarls at Aziraphale, “you’re a _fa—”_

Before he can finish the sentence, he’s thrown back against an empty wall, his back slamming loudly and painfully into the hard wood and the briefcase dropping out of his grip, hitting the floor and bursting open with a flurry of paper money. Crowley looks shocked for only a split second before his gaze flies to Aziraphale, who has a hand outstretched in a manner akin to the demon’s, and an unchanged expression on his face.

“I would rather prefer if you didn’t finish that sentence,” says the angel, and Crowley huffs out a delighted laugh.

“Alright,” the demon announces, rubbing his hands together. He throws his hands out, gesturing to the two other men—the second of which had stopped leaning against the shelf—and grins. “Out! Or do we need to _persuade_ you a bit more, hm?”

The two scramble out of the shop, clearly acting with their common sense and abandoning their colleague, who’s still pinned, confused and angry and terrified, against the wall of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Once the two men are out on the streets, Aziraphale sighs and retracts his hand. The man drops to the floor, breathing hard and eyes wide.

“Awh, no, angel, he would’ve made a wonderful decoration,” complains Crowley. Then he raises an eyebrow at the man, still cowering on the floor. “Right, then! You can walk out of here with bruises and an embarrassing mole where there wasn’t one before, or you can walk out with one less briefcase and a bruised pride, and only _maybe_ an extra mole. So what’s it gonna be, eh?”

The man scrambles to his feet, still pressed against the wall, and raises a shaking finger, pointing at them. “Freaks,” he manages to spit out, stammering. “Fu—Fuckin’ _freaks_.”

Then he runs like Hell is chasing after him—which, given the company present inside of the bookshop and all that just happened, might not have been too far from the truth. Within five minutes, Aziraphale’s got the curtains drawn completely, the _closed_ sign displayed, and the briefcase is closed yet again, the contents of which are stored safely inside. For now.

Crowley frowns, turning his gaze from the closed door to Aziraphale. “That kinda stuff happen oft’n?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale replies, dismissively. “It’s happened a few times—once or twice, maybe three.”

“Really?” The demon crosses his arms. “And you _never_ called me?”

“Well,” the angel says, defensively, “I didn’t want to bother you, and besides, I was always able to handle myself. I handled myself back there!”

“Yes,” Crowley mutters, reluctantly, “you rather did. Quite beautifully, too.”

Aziraphale smiles. “It was rather entertaining when you showed up. How long had you been there?”

“I was…” Crowley gestures vaguely to the back of the shop. “You know, hangin’ round, then I heard stuff, and since you didn’t know I was there yet I figured, _maybe I should stay low-key for a bit more_, then I heard the word ‘flammable’ and…” He trails off, not knowing how to word the next part. “You know. During… the Apocaldidn’t.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale knows, although he’s not quite clear on the specifics. He knows about his bookshop burning, yes, but the one thing his memory really retains from the experience was Crowley’s despondent, _devastated_ tone when he’d told Aziraphale’s discorporated conscious, _I lost my best friend._ “Oh, _Crowley_.”

The demon waves a dismissive hand, chuckling bitterly. “Don’t pity me on my behalf.”

“I’m not _pitying_ you,” Aziraphale echoes with indignation. _What kind of friend does Crowley take him as? _“It’s straightforward sympathy, Crowley. It’s not pity. I—I would just—”

He sighs in frustration, losing his words, before settling for the straightforward, “I’d like to give you a hug.”

Crowley looks surprised for a moment, then wary, then just tired. “’S a’ight, I suppose. Go ahead.”

Aziraphale beams, and spreads his arms wide open. Crowley eyes him and sighs, stepping forward into the angel’s embrace, letting Aziraphale wrap his arms around him—the demon sighs, almost unconsciously, in content, and lets his arms fall around the other, relaxing into the embrace.

“If you were wonderin’,” Crowley says into the hug, his head still resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “I did end up giving him that mole.”

His angel’s startled laugh of pure joy and surprise is his answer, and it’s all he wants to hear.


End file.
